


grant victory to the men whose cause was just

by bryndentully



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-08-09 18:44:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7812994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bryndentully/pseuds/bryndentully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Instead of a trial by combat, Tyrion demands a trial of seven.</p>
            </blockquote>





	grant victory to the men whose cause was just

**Author's Note:**

> I was rereading _The Hedge Knight_ and felt inspired. Set near the end of _A Storm of Swords._

Kingslaying and kinslaying. Pod's lord is a twice-damned man. It is a grim day in the Red Keep.

Naturally, Pod's lord finds a unique way to settle the matter.

"You leave me no choice but to appeal to the gods," Lord Tyrion shouts, a giant among men. "I demand trial by battle!”

"He has that right, my lords," says Queen Cersei, smiling.

The Hand is torn between anger and disbelief. "Have you taken leave of your wits?" He demands, ignoring her comment.

“No, I’ve found them. I demand trial by battle! Nay, a trial of seven, so the gods will intervene on _my_ behalf!"

It's impossible to know what the crowd of people will do, by Pod's estimation. They sneered at Lord Tyrion whenever they could, ignored the misery of Lady Sansa, and pretended not to see the suffering of the smallfolk just outside the walls. Pod has a guess—more gales of laughter, or perhaps a frightened silence, given the combined disposition of the royal family now that it is riddled with grief.

Of all things, Pod does not expect what happens next—the Moon Boy whacking Ser Osmund Kettleblack's elbow with a 'morningstar' made of a melon and hooting as if they dine at supper and not an investigation of regicide. "Trial of seven!" The fool cheers, ducking the knight's retaliatory swipe. The fool's blows with the melon stain Kettleblack's white cloak. "Trial! Of! Seven!" In a matter of seconds, between roars of mirth from the men and giggles from the women, the cry thunders again and again, filling the hall with its booms.

"TRIAL! OF! SEVEN! TRIAL! OF! SEVEN! TRIAL! OF! SEVEN! TRIAL! OF! SEVEN!"

It takes Lord Tywin's ascent to his feet and bellows of the Kingsguard to lower the noise. When the Hand raises his own, it vanishes.

"Do you have any champions to defend your innocence?" Mace Tyrell asks, sounding doubtful.

 _Me_ , Pod wants to shout, if he was braver, if he was a knight, if he was a man grown, if he wasn't crammed in near the scullions.

"He does, my lord," the Prince of Dorne announces, glorious as the sun of his sigil. "The dwarf has quite convinced me."

The new uproar climbs as high as Casterly Rock, but it falls like the Reynes and Tarbecks to Lord Tywin's wrath and gold cloak spears.

"Let the issue be decided on the morrow," the Hand of the King commands, furious and so very cold. "I wash my hands of it."

* * *

When Pod's lord sends him off for cheese, bread, and olives, Pod makes a slight detour. At this hour, Grandmaester Pycelle will not be near the rookery; in all of the excitement stirred by the trial, Pod reckons the maester will be with the small council, blubbering nonsense and tales about Lord Tyrion. The thought puts more purpose in Pod's steps, and a frown on his lips. _That old man is a liar._

The serving girl of Pycelle's is all too happy to palm off the books Pod wants. He asks why.

"He's foul," she confides, shivering, giving no further details. They aren't necessary—Pod has an inkling, albeit a saddening one.

"He won't look for them?"

She snorts, accepting one of the hunks of bread intended for Lord Tyrion as payment. "He's almost blind. Won't notice a thing."

Arms laden with his treasures, Pod thanks her and hurries off. When he returns to Lord Tyrion's tower cell, Pod sees they are not alone.

"Was Myr pleasant, boy?" Prince Oberyn queries, pouring wine.

"Myr?"

"Your trip to the kitchens last as long as a sea voyage."

Pod blushes and mutters his apologies. He distributes the food (another course will be asked for within the hour) and retreats to give them privacy. The illusion of privacy, at least. Lord Tyrion always reminded the Lady Shae of that; if Lord Varys isn't listening, someone else most certainly is. Pod cringes at the thought of them; both testified against Pod's lord, unrepentantly so, and all of it lies. Lady Sansa never plotted to kill the king, and neither did Lord Tyrion. His lord suspects his missing lady, Pod thinks, but Pod knows the truth despite her absence...both of them are innocent. King Joffrey hurt them, threatened them, but Pod sees what the court and queen cannot—Lady Sansa's longing to go home, Lord Tyrion's want to belong. Murdering a king shoves those dreams aside and locks them in a black cell.

No one asks a squire for his opinion, though, so Pod keeps his thoughts to himself.

He opens one of the smuggled books— _Tales of Knighthood_ —and thumbs to the chapter dedicated to hedge knights throughout history. Ser Duncan the Tall has a bigger emphasis in one of the books about Lord Commanders of the Kingsguard, but Pod wants a peek at the man's humble origins. He and the fifth King Aegon were as close as brothers, if Maester Yandel's account is to be believed. _Ser Duncan struck the prince in defense of a Dornish puppeteer, citing a knight's vows to protect the weak. Noble, to be sure, but foolish..._

Pod reads on, finding what he's been looking after several minutes. The most recent trial of seven was only about ninety years ago, during the Ashford tourney. _It was madness_ , Ser Jon Florent wrote to his mother at Brightwater Keep. _I've never seen such a greater melee_ , Ser Denys Marbrand swore, reflecting on the event after more than a decade passed. _The gods smiled on Ser Duncan_ , Ser Bennifer Blackwood noted in admiration, _and cast a shadow on Aerion Brightflame, the cruel princeling destined to die drinking wildfire._

"Your father has given you a fortnight," Prince Oberyn tells Lord Tyrion, attracting Pod's attention, "to find and train more champions."

"How generous."

Pod leafs through a thinner account of the tourney and trial, listening.

The prince snorts. "Generous, you say. Contemptuous, _I_ say. Were it a simple trial by combat, you would not wait so long for justice."

"Me or you?"

"Careful, my lord of Lannister, if you value your tongue. You can live without it, yes?"

"Ser Ilyn has no complaints."

Pod shivers. His relative is a fearsome man. His anxiety isn't hidden well over Ser Raymun Fossoway's biography—Tyrion notices.

"Cheer up, Podrick," says Tyrion, blithe and dishonest, Pod can tell. "I don't intend to die by your cousin's hand anytime soon."

"Cousin?" Oberyn prompts, raising an eyebrow over his wine.

Pod stammers only once, to his relief. "Distantly, my prince. I l-love him not. Him. Ser Ilyn. The king's justice."

He drops his eyes to his book, glad the focus has left him again. Slipping from scrutiny has always been easy. No one cares for a squire, and the same people care even less for a copper star that fails to match the gold coins-on-chequy of House Payne. Ser Cedric always said as much when Pod was in his service. Ser Lormier wasn't particularly complimentary, either. Only Lord Tyrion has extended Pod a kindness, however grudgingly, and this lord may die in two weeks, if Pod's luck falls short again. He draws the book closer, fighting tears.

 _He can't. He can't. I'm his **squire**_.

Sucking in a breath, Pod dives back into Ser Duncan's adventures. Tomorrow, the search begins for Tyrion's six remaining champions.

"To my honor," Pod's lord declares, slurring his words. "And my innocence."

Pod has faith in both. Convincing the rest of the court of the same is...unlikely. _Just as unlikely as Duncan's squire, Aegon, becoming king_ , a voice like Lord Tyrion's whispers to Pod, more hopeful than the real man has ever been. The man himself is a hero, a true one.

Pod wants everyone to see his lord's valor, even if it takes seven gods-in-one to convince all Seven Kingdoms of it.

* * *

Pod rises early and bustles off, fetching Lord Tyrion's breakfast before getting even a nibble of his own. Once Ser Addam and his men arrive to guard the door, Pod makes his way to the wing of the Red Keep given to the Dornishmen, running over a list of candidates in his mind that have potential to stand for Lord Tyrion in judgment of his treason. Some are friends, some are acquaintances, and others are enemies, but Pod likes to think that Lord Tyrion is not _alone_ in this crisis. Others will join him, if they are true knights. They must.

A boy with a crowned skull of House Manwoody straightens up outside the prince's chambers as Pod approaches.

"Name?"

"Podrick of House Payne. Squire to the a-accused, Tyrion of House Lannister, former Hand of the King and Master of Coin. Son of—"

"Mors," Prince Oberyn calls from within, grumbling, "send the boy."

The prince is feeding his paramour a fig when Pod enters the room. He blushes and looks away, waiting to be spoken to directly.

"The hard work begins," says Prince Oberyn, kissing Ellaria Sand goodbye and rising from his seat. Pod follows him out, hurrying to match the prince's pace. Another squire trails after Oberyn and Pod, also bearing the Manwoody colors. _Dickon_ , Pod remembers at once.

"Boy," the prince beckons, inviting Pod to walk alongside him, as if they are equals. Pod squirms but complies. "Where to go first?"

 _You're asking me?_ "I..."

A name from Pod's list jumps to his mind, then his mouth.

"Ser Garlan of House Tyrell."

"Son to the fat fool of Highgarden," Oberyn observes, making Dickon grin and Pod gape. He adds a little disbelief into his tone, regarding Pod curiously. "The king was Ser Garlan's goodbrother, however briefly. What makes you think this man will serve yours?"

Pod's reply is not as quick, this time. Ser Garlan the Gallant, all names aside, is a Tyrell. The Tyrells allied closely with the Lannisters. With one Lannister dead at the supposed hand of another, the Tyrells would be wise to stay uninvolved, in Pod's humble opinion. And the Lady Margaery—her husband the king died at their wedding. Why would Ser Garlan defend the murderer in front of gods and men?

"He is a knight," Pod answers to Oberyn's chin, fearing the Red Viper's piercing eyes. "And...and he defended Lord Tyrion to His Grace."

"A brave man," the prince muses, sounding pleased. "Come, boys. We have a flower to weed out."

Unlike excursions with Lord Tyrion, no laughs or looks in askance follow the Prince of Dorne. The Red Keep buzzes like a nest of excited bees as the trio search for the second champion, talking of nothing but Pod's lord and a dwarf's cowardice. Pod's indignation has him flushed like a beet by the time Ser Garlan is located, arm-in-arm with the Lady Leonette. They meet near the castle sept, exchanging courteous greetings. Lady Leonette's gaze darts between her husband and the prince, as if she knows the matter of the meeting already.

"Now," says Prince Oberyn, seemingly uncaring if they are overheard, "I must ask you for a favor, ser."

"I thought as much."

"He needs you. _I_ need you."

Lady Leonette's eyes lower to the ground. Ser Garlan looks pained. The prince has a new grimness about his mouth.

"Your brother has my confidence, ser, not you," Prince Oberyn continues, as if Pod and Dickon and Lady Leonette are not listening nearby, as if the Lannisters do not have ears in the walls, eavesdropping closely. "But the world knows why the Mountain must die. _You_ know why. I am not a patient man, yet my brother and I have waited years for this opportunity to fall into our laps. For Elia. For Rhaenys and Aegon. For justice." His shoulders relax, just a bit. "If it _also_ gives me a chance to clear the good imp's name, it's all for the better."

Ser Garlan's eyes flit to his wife and back, quick enough to see her smile, albeit sadly.

"No one has shown that man any kindness," says Garlan, words soft. It isn't pity, like Pod's lord hates, but compassion. Genuine feeling and friendship. Pod watches, hopeful, until Ser Garlan finally sighs, nods once, and claps a determined hand on Oberyn's shoulder, holding fast to the now grinning Prince of Dorne. "Tyrion has my sword, Oberyn. Seven save me, I stand with him, and with you."

"Willas isn't quite as theatrical—" The prince tries, gleeful.

"Now, now, my prince," Lady Leonette interjects, warmly and warningly, "remember your courtesies."

Prince Oberyn sketches a bow, smiling all the while. He and Dickon stride away, but Pod hangs back for a moment, wanting to be brave.

"Thank you, ser. My lady," Pod says, bowing deeply to them and fighting stammers, unable to express much other than inarticulate gratitude and sheer relief. _It's a start! Tyrion has a chance!_ Pod scampers after Oberyn and Dickon, steps as light as a squire's purse.

* * *

Bronn is a necessary follow-up. He's Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, now, and the future lord of Stokeworth, if the queen's offer lasts. Pod can't put much faith in Bronn, despite a former and fruitful association to Lord Tyrion—Bronn has a cunning that makes other men uneasy. A lowborn sellsword, they whisper, derisive. Lord Tyrion has a liking for his 'black-hearted rogue', but Pod isn't quite as sure...

An arrogant man for an arrogant man, but a knight, in the end. It's the title itself Pod needs, they need.

"He has no honor," Dickon mumbles. "Why him?"

Prince Oberyn looks similarly skeptical. Pod draws himself up an inch, failing to seem taller, more worldly, and more knowledgable.

He's too short on all counts. "Lord Tyrion can pay him?" Pod suggests, weakly, unable to muster any alternatives. The prince snorts.

"As can I. Lead on, Podrick."

To Pod's embarrassment and Oberyn's amusement, Ser Bronn of the Blackwater is found in Chataya's...house of sighing. Neither Alayaya or Bronn look close to sighing after the trio shows up without an invitation, barreling into the room with the grace of elephants.

"My prince," Alayaya murmurs in greeting, politeness skimmed with admiration. He smiles. Bronn does not.

" _No_ ," the sellsword pronounces, before much else is said. "No. I won't do it."

Alayaya's exit distracts them all—men and boys alike—but Bronn is quicker yet again, even in the midst of pulling up his breeches.

"I already _told_ him. The queen..."

"Lies," supplies the prince without hesitation. Bronn waves this away like the word is a gnat and doubly irksome.

"I'm gettin' a castle out of this. A lordship, if the cards fall proper. What can you lot give me that the bloody queen _can't_?"

"High Hermitage," Prince Oberyn answers, more insolent than Bronn has ever dared to be. Dickon's jaw drops.

Bronn glances at Pod, not missing Dickon's astonishment. Pod struggles with his own shock, unsure if he heard right.

"High Hermitage is the seat of House Dayne's cadet branch," he explains once able to. "In the Red Mountains, near the Torrentine."

Bronn has perked up at 'Dayne'. Pod recognizes a familiar glint of greed in the sellsword's eyes. It's a good sign, if unnerving—by Pod's figuring, it means the man can still be persuaded, if the prince words the offer correctly and dangles just the right amount of gold.

The haggling begins.

"Stokeworth's closer," Bronn remarks, casually.

"High Hermitage is bigger."

"Lollys won't bother me."

"A Dornish girl will never _bore_ you," the prince hums. "I know men like you. I _was_ you. You like excitement, ser. Wildness."

Bronn looks cornered, but Pod sees too much pride in him to give up. "Stokeworth has more...farmland. Food. Lots o' stores for winter."

"Ser," Prince Oberyn chortles, "did you know? Winter never comes to Dorne." Pod thinks that'll be the end of it, but the prince merely drops a foot on the edge of the bed, drapes an elbow over his knee, and leans closer to Bronn, as if sharing a secret of epic proportions. Dickon and Pod lean in, too, despite themselves. "What better lord for High Hermitage than you, Ser Bronn? Surely your love of gold will be satisfied when scores of Dornishmen, Reachmen, and traders from the Free Cities beg you for sand steeds? High Hermitage's chief export and Dorne's pride is our horses—they can run for two days and never tire," he swears, flapping an arm to illustrate the point.

Bronn's smile is wicked. What's worse, Oberyn has _more_ to add.

"If _that_ doesn't convince you, consider this: your new seat has the Summer Islands on the horizon, only a short trip by sea. If your smallfolk seem too loyal, and your wife becomes too giving, and your gold appears too plentiful to count alone, your lordship may prefer a recess from your duties. There, you will find more lovers than you can possibly _imagine_ , ser, who want to make merry with _you_."

"I...do have a big imagination," says Bronn, almost dreamily. Oberyn grins.

"All of it is yours, my friend. If—"

"If I fight for Tyrion. You do know the fuckin' _Mountain_ is against us?" _My prince_ , Pod finishes silently, better with his courtesies.

"I will take care of Gregor Clegane," Oberyn tells him, a touch of steel in his tone. "Think no more of him."

Bronn blinks. Blinks again, grins, biting as the Manwoody skull. "Fine," says Tyrion's black-hearted rogue, showy in his defeat, "fine!"

* * *

"You're giving High Hermitage to Bronn," says Lord Tyrion, flatly. "High Hermitage. _Bronn_."

Oberyn chews the piece of cheese Ellaria Sand has teased into his mouth, looking far too pleased with himself.

"If he can hold it from the Darkstar, it's his."

Pod peeks over his book. Lord Tyrion looks cross and intrigued but unwilling to admit to either one. At last, Ellaria answers.

"Ser Gerold has...displeased Prince Doran," she confides, beatific and mysterious. "A friend to Oberyn is a friend to him."

"And your brother will just hand off a lordship to an upstart like Bronn? He _is_ a sellsword, you know."

"As was I," Prince Oberyn admits. "But High Hermitage isolates Ser Bronn, as does the Red Mountains, and the Torrentine."

"Between Starfall and Blackmont," Pod pipes up, before darting behind his book again. Ellaria laughs, softly.

"Your boy is right, my lord. Your friend _must_ be loyal, or risk an ambush between my prince's more trustworthy bannermen."

Lord Tyrion has a hint of Bronn's earlier stubbornness. And loyalty, Pod realizes, good humor fading ever so slightly.

"He's my friend, Prince Oberyn. Try not to deceive him too much."

"Your friend needed a great deal of bargaining to join us, Tyrion," the prince retorts, coldly. Tyrion flinches, but Oberyn continues, just as ruthless as his bartering. "You need him. _We_ need him. He's a knight, all greed aside. Thanks to you and your arrogance, your trial by combat that I planned to volunteer for became a more troublesome trial of seven. Be grateful," the prince demands, "that I have found two willing champions for you in a matter of hours. In one swoop, I rid Dorne of a traitor, keep your head attached to your body, and serve Elia and her children a long awaited justice. You are a clever man, my lord, but a foolish one, if you overlook your good fortune."

"I appreciate your help," Lord Tyrion bites out, tightly, "but I _am_ allowed some incredulity, my prince. You are using me, after all."

Pod's lord isn't wrong. Bronn spurned their friendship for an estate, but Prince Oberyn just as easily exploited an opportunity to kill Ser Gregor without repercussions. And in that light...Pod wonders if it will cast a shadow like the one bestowed on Aerion Brightflame. The prince's cleverness balances on the point of a sword over shallow promises. It reeks of mistrust, not the spirit of true knighthood.

"I'm using you, you're using me. Do not deny it."

Pod gets to his feet without prompting and pours Lord Tyrion another glass of wine, the surest way to improve Tyrion's spirits.

"And neither are charging interest," says Pod's lord with a sigh, raising a toast. "To black-hearted rogues with no banking experience."

Prince Oberyn laughs, annoyance dimming fast and sure, like the path of a spear.

"To your seven gods," Ellaria Sand suggests, just as breezily as her lover, "and their _infinite_ wisdom."

* * *

The next day, Pod and Oberyn split up to cover more ground for recruiting, but to Pod's dismay, his luck is all but gone.

"That dwarf is guilty, my boy," Bonifer the Good tells him, stern and old as Grandmaester Pycelle. "May the Father judge him justly."

"Fight the Mountain for _him_?" Red Ronnet of Griffin's Roost wonders, unreasonably rude. "Not for a single groat."

"Not for a penny," Lord Alesander Staedmon the Pennylover sneers, meticulously counting his winnings from a card game.

Sers Dermot of the Rainwood and Timon the Scrapesword only laugh at him. _Duncan said hedge knights are the truest knights_ , Pod wants to yell at them, if they weren't so much stronger, if they didn't refuse just to save their skins from the wrath of the Lannisters.

"We were too close to Renly," Elyas and Josua Willum mutter. "We can't be seen with you."

A wiser squire would not ask help from knights that subtly or openly dislike Pod's lord, but Pod wants to believe there are men in the Red Keep that are not _bad_ men. The Blackwater bore more than six hundred knights after the fighting was done; there must be at least seven who do not shirk the responsibilities of knighthood. _Is there no one brave, honorable, and genuine in their word_?

"My knee is not what it once was," Lord Steffon Varner admits after Pod finds him in the Great Sept. "Give the dwarf my sympathies."

Lords Redwyne and Celtigar are not to be asked, Pod knows, thinking of their testimonies against Lord Tyrion. Ser Flement Brax is also out of the question, as is Ser Philip Foote. Lord Estermont is too old; Josmyn Peckledon is still a squire ( _closer to becoming a knight than you_ , Peck sniffs), along with the Slynt boys. Pod avoids looking at the frogfaced pair too long, fearing their penchant for cruelty.

Lambert Turnberry, Beardless Jon Bettley, and Alyn Stackspear are just as hopeless. Pod's starting to worry, until someone finally agrees.

"Count me in," Ser Mark Mullendore mumbles, pushing his cup away now that it's empty. "I have nothing better to do."

"No one will forget your name," Pod offers, working the angle Oberyn suggested. Fame drives men far, and trials of seven being so rare..."And, ser? " Pod adds. "My prince will find you a new monkey." He lost the first in the Blackwater, and part of his arm.

Mullendore gives him a toothy grin despite himself. Pod pours the newest champion a cup of Dornish red, risking a tiny smile.

"Thank you, ser, for your chivalry."

When Pod tracks Oberyn down, the prince has found a man of his own—Ser Tallad the Tall, one of the many knighted after the siege.

"He has a lot of promise," the prince murmurs to Pod. "And a hunger for glory. His footwork needs adjusting, however."

"Ser Bronn once noticed the same, my prince," Pod replies, thoughtful and tentative. "M-mayhaps they could spar together?"

"I must insist you open your mouth more often, Podrick," the prince remarks, smiling. "Good ideas cannot be left unsaid."

* * *

Without Lord Varys visiting Lord Tyrion, and the lack of attendance on the latter's part to meetings of the small council, news in the Red Keep travels much slower. It falls to Pod to keep an ear out for trouble, hearsay, or even both; squires have a better chance of being unseen and unheard than a lord or a prince, though not as well as servants, who are always thought invisible unless proven useful. Most of the Red Keep hardly looks to Pod anyway, when more _promising_ boys and lordlings approach the day they become anointed knights.

Lord Tyrion's trial—to the Hand of the King's frustration, some wager—has become an even bigger spectacle. Lords not currently involved in defending their lands or reaping the final harvests linger in the city, wanting prime seating for the second trial of seven in almost a hundred years. To Pod's chagrin, it reeks of tourney excitement rather than a hankering to see the gods' justice done. Hordes of poor servants of the Faith converge on King's Landing, enticed by a rarely invoked Andal tradition occurring in their lifetimes. The Lady Olenna insists it is a necessary distraction from the death of their king. Lord Mathis Rowan quips about food shortages in the Riverlands.

Pod's fetching dinner for Tyrion when Ser Osmund Kettleblack's conversation with a crowd of serving wenches grows in volume.

"Ser Ilyn's just joined us, you know. He mourns the king _deeply_."

Pod drops a pan of pease onto the floor and gets a cook's wallop upside the head for it, but Kettleblack doesn't notice a thing. Ser Ilyn? The king's justice? Podrick's own kin? Pod feels the beginnings of a sweat at his hairline. Plenty of men fear the royal executioner, and enough knights, too. Pod has to—Pod has to go. He has to _tell_ someone. Anyone. Lord Tyrion. The Red Viper of Dorne. Ser Garlan...

" _Him_?" One girl asks, incredulous. "He can't even _talk_."

"Aye, he can't," Kettleblack agrees, lowering his voice a fraction so the wenches must lean in to hear, "but he smiles."

"He does not!"

"I saw it with my own eyes. When the queen asked him to avenge her sweet son—"

"Sweet?" Pycelle's serving girl hisses in disbelief to Pod, whisking her tray away in a huff. Pod, meanwhile, is rooted to the spot.

"—Ser Ilyn smiled," Kettleblack finishes, now grinning himself. "Nodded. He's going to gut that dwarf from cock to...nose hole."

The wenches titter, the cooks shake their heads, and Pod quietly collects Tyrion's supper, reflecting on the news on the way back.

Climbing a set of stairs, Pod wonders if it really changes anything. The Mountain That Rides bears the burden of the people's fear like no other in all of Pod's books. Ser Ilyn's cultivated his own terrible reputation and skill with a blade, but Pod thinks the prince will just...laugh off the news, as if the new threat is yet another navigable hurdle. Ser Garlan, Pod guesses, will ponder new strategies to round out their plan of attack; Ser Tallad will pale like milk, betraying his youth; Bronn will offer a smart comment to hide his apprehension.

And Lord Tyrion...

Lord Tyrion will counter Bronn's comment with one just as impudent. He'll roll his eyes at the prince, perhaps thinking of his brother's nature. He'll console Ser Tallad for joining a fool's crusade, and consider moves a man of Ser Garlan's weight and stature does not.

And Pod? Pod will serve, as any good squire does.

* * *

Three days of searching and begging draws only one man, bringing the list to six—Ser Jon Fossoway, of the green-apple Fossoways.

 _Apt_ , Pod muses, thinking of Raymun Fossoway fighting for Ser Duncan, creating a new House branch in the process.

" _Your_ lady wife pleaded with _my_ lady wife," Fossoway explains, rueful, "to get me to volunteer and keep an eye on you."

"Nettie," Ser Garlan says in place of an explanation, resembling more of a besotted boy than a man grown.

"We're going to see Myr, once this and Winter are over. You are not invited, nephew."

Garlan just grins, and gestures Ser Jon to follow him and Pod into Lord Tyrion's tower cell, now a great deal more crowded than it has ever been. Ser Addam Marbrand almost looks amused as he grants them permission to enter yet another meeting of Tyrion's sworn men. Pod sets to work at once. He pours Dornish wine into waiting cups, distributes courses of steaming food onto plates and trenchers, and organizes seating arrangements carefully. Prince Oberyn sits far from Ser Jon in respect of their shared regional dislike, but between Ser Tallad and Bronn, the neutral parties and fast 'friends' of the prince. Ser Mark rubs elbows with Ser Garlan and Lord Tyrion, mostly due to Pod's acknowledgment of the former's status as son of a Lord Paramount and the latter as the reason for gathering such a collection of men together in the first place. Pod sets a seventh plate out, despite the empty seat, hoping it can be filled in time for the trial.

"So," Lord Tyrion prompts, once supper is served and Pod has found a place against the wall to stand, "any news?"

The cell fills with tidings of absentee knights, admissions knocking into one another like _cyvasse_ pieces on a board.

"Ser Daemon has refused me," Prince Oberyn admits, after yesterday's promise to find a willing Dornishman to fill the vacancy.

Jon Fossoway coughs, muttering unintelligibly. Pod can't decide if it was 'of course' or 'pack horse', but the prince ignores him.

"Horror and Slobber asked if I lost my wits, not part of my arm," Mark Mullendore grumbles, just as unlucky with recruitment.

"Rolland"—Storm, Pod suspects, half remembering some of the men who did not come to swear fealty—"joined Stannis."

"None of my men will take the plunge," Bronn complains, stabbing at his mutton with unnecessary force. "Not without a shitton of gold."

"Colen of Greenpools has left for greener pastures."

"Aron Santagar died in the bread riots, did he not?"

Unnoticed, Pod nods. Ser Aron fought Lothor Brune to a draw at the Hand's tourney, and then lost to Lord Jason Mallister. The old man-at-arms trained Pod at Tyrion's behest, too, ably and firmly, until the smallfolk attacked him and Preston Greenfield, and Lollys...

"Ser Shadrich's out fighting the Hound," Tallad the Tall chimes in, screwing up his face in thought. "Or so I heard."

Every _no_ lowers Lord Tyrion's spirits, Pod notices. Obligingly, he pours a fresh glass of wine, getting a grateful look for it.

"Well," says Tyrion, like he has every night for almost a week, "mayhaps the morrow will be better."

* * *

At dawn, the men trudge down to the stables, fighting yawns and stiff muscles. Prince Oberyn's request for their party to train in privacy was surprisingly granted. Pod assumes it's a mingling of reasons—pity, given the state of their opponents and combined prowess, or even gladness, for uniting the realm in a strange state of anticipation despite unrest in the Riverlands, the North, and Beyond the Wall. Queen Cersei and Lord Tywin don't seem to have a problem with waiting for the sentence to fall on Lord Tyrion in the way they please.

Once every man is properly armored and has a mount, Ser Garlan steers the line into the kingswood, until they reach a meadow several leagues from the city. Lord Tyrion was left in his cell, but encouraged Pod to go along, just in case the men need a sparring partner.

Bronn ties his palfrey's reins to a tree, and gives the meadow a mocking glance.

"Any boar around? I'm starving."

The prince laughs.

"None of that, ser," says Garlan, donning a shield and unsheathing his longsword. "We're here to train."

And they do. Pod watches in fascination, trying to remember all of the best moves so he can use them himself, one day. Bronn decimates Tallad, as he once predicted, though the sellsword just as quickly barks advice at the hedge knight, gruffly correcting any errors. Oberyn bats away Garlan's blows with flicks and swings of his spear, but has to dart around him to do so, thanks to Garlan's size. Mark Mullendore and Jon Fossoway square off against each other, evenly matched with Jon's age to Mark's missing hand.

Pod's dragging a whetstone up and down a shortsword, sharpening it for the prince's use, when Ser Garlan extends a hand.

"Up," the new lord of Brightwater Keep requests, sternly. "You need the practice."

This is nothing like the fight in the Riverlands, alongside Ser Cedric, nor it is like the protection of the baggage train with Ser Lorimer. It only has a small resemblance to the Battle of the Blackwater, where Pod slashed at passing men with Lord Tyrion and pushed Ser Mandon into the river. The six men are just as able tutors as Ser Aron, Pod finds, experimenting with some of their favored techniques.

Pod's more bruised than the rest of them by the time the sun has grown wan and thin in the sky, but it's a good ache, a pleasant one.

"You're not that bad," Tallad admits, a rare concession. "For a squire."

"You'd take longer to kill," Bronn allows, grudgingly.

The Prince of Dorne loudly suggests Pod follow _his_ example—using speed against a larger opponent. Mark Mullendore claps Pod on the shoulder, more complimentary than the others. Jon Fossoway gives him a genial smile, eyes twinkling. Ser Garlan Tyrell just grins.

"You have the makings of a great knight, Podrick."

 _Do I?_ Pod wonders, hopefully. _Maybe_ , he thinks. _Just maybe._

* * *

With a scant of number of days left before the trial of seven, Lord Tyrion's mood gets only darker. Pod has seen this behavior before. His lord was once Hand of the King, a position laden with enough stress to fill every spot on the small council. The cause is clear—a seventh man with adequate fighting skills is dearly needed and none have turned up, even if the seekers are a prince and a lord of the Reach.

"Who else? _Who else?_ "

Lord Tyrion's angrier than usual, Pod estimates. Ser Jaime (now Lord of the Kingsguard in name _and_ practice) has refused Tyrion's plea to fight for him. Pod didn't miss the way Ser Jaime hides his stump of a wrist when he spoke; Ser Mark does the same thing.

"My uncles," Ser Garlan offers, albeit uncertainly. Pod conjures the relation in his mind—all the Hightower knights. "Baelor..."

"Baelor Breakwind," Prince Oberyn notes, smirking. Jon Fossoway rolls his eyes.

"Or Garth? Humfrey and Gunthor, perhaps. Though..." Garlan trails off. "They wouldn't arrive in time."

"Edmund Ambrose," Fossoway muses. "But I've got no idea where the lad is, I must admit."

"Lothor Brune?" Pod pipes up, before remembering Littlefinger's freerider must have accompanied him to the Vale of Arryn.

"The Royce boys are decent fighters, according to my sources," says Prince Oberyn.

Bronn makes throat-slitting motions, just as Lord Tyrion lifts his bloodshot eyes from his cup, looking murderous.

" _No_ men of the Vale. None of them defended me at my _last_ trial by combat, thank you very much."

"How many is that now?" Mark Mullendore mumbles.

The group disperses for the night, with Ser Garlan and Prince Oberyn last. Pod shuts the door on their talks of a gift from Lord Willas that arrives tomorrow, and starts clearing the table of plates and food. Lord Tyrion doesn't move beyond emptying and refilling his wine.

"Pod," says Pod's lord, hoarsely. " _Pod_."

"Yes, my lord?"

"Do you think I did this?"

 _This_ meaning the murder of King Joffrey, Tyrion's own nephew. Pod hesitated once before at the question. He does not again.

"No, my lord."

A chuckle, watery and sad. "Why? Why not?"

If Pod is to speak plainly, it's for Tyrion's kindness. He's more often brusque than he is cordial, and tends to think Pod is...stupid, but Tyrion's never hit him, not like Ser Cedric. Tyrion's never screamed at him like Ser Lorimer did before they shoved him to the gallows, blaming him for stealing the ham from Lord Tywin's stores. Tyrion's never _hurt_ him. Nonetheless, Pod doesn't want to speak plainly. Squires don't offer their opinions. And Pod...Pod doesn't want to unravel it all, unbinding the knot of anxiety and half remembered pains of being ignored and left behind. Lord Tyrion has never left him behind, and Pod isn't going to let him now, even if the trial goes bad.

Pod puts on a poor attempt at a lord's face, like Tyrion does when he faces crowds, and tries to sound brave.

"Because, my lord," Pod answers, stacking plates, "you'd never be that stupid."

Like the Moon Boy's buffoonery in the Great Hall, Pod doesn't expect what awaits him—Tyrion's laughter, loud as a giant's.

"To you, Podrick Payne," Lord Tyrion proclaims, sloshing wine all over himself. "The most loyal squire to ever live."

Pod reddens and stammers, Tyrion cracks a joke, and everything is the same as it always has been, just for a moment, save for an idea that sticks in Pod's mind long after Tyrion has fallen asleep at the table, snoring into his hands. _Maybe_ , he thinks again. _Just maybe._

* * *

The next morning, Pod times Grandmaester Pycelle's absence just right again, and tracks down the serving girl, Ysilla.

"Another book?" She asks, glancing at him as she feeds the ravens. "He hasn't noticed any of the missing ones, like I said."

Pod shakes his head, shifting his prize higher on his shoulder, smuggled out of the armory only minutes earlier.

"Can you paint?" Though Pycelle has little need of them, inks and dyes of all kinds are kept here for cartography.

"Paint?" Ysilla repeats, curious. She eyes the shield's undecorated side, tellingly blank. "You makin' a sigil?"

"I am."

A little smile finds a place on her mouth, pretty as Lady Sansa's. "Only knights get those, Podrick," she says, almost knowingly.

 _She knows my name._ Pod risks a smile himself, albeit a small one. "That's right. But...I want—"

She takes the shield without further invitation, running her fingers along the wood. _Oak and iron, guard me well..._

"What'll it be?"

"A star," Pod explains, fishing out a sketch from his sleeve that had taken all night to dream up, "like this."

* * *

Too soon for Pod's liking, the day of reckoning comes to King's Landing.

As the hour of the owl meets its end by dawn, Pod drags himself out of bed and gets to work. He helps Tyrion dress, dons his own clothing, tidies up the cell now that Brella is no longer in Tyrion's household, and collects a breakfast of porridge and green apples for the both of them.

"Wine, Pod."

Ser Addam Marbrand enters not long after, accompanied by a pair of gold cloaks. Four others linger in the hallway.

"Your champions await you in the kingswood, my lord. Allow me to escort you."

They make a curious sight, traipsing through the near vacant Red Keep. What's more curious is the lack of people, save for scullions and servers. Ysilla is not among them, Pod notices, to his surprise. She must've joined Grandmaester Pycelle and the rest of the court. She'll have done what Pod asked by now—filched the shield to the Dornish men-at-arms, where it will stay unless Pod has no need of it.

Security, as Pod regards it. A _just in case_.

When Lord Tyrion and Pod reach the kingswood, Pod wonders if he's stepped back in time to the tourney that celebrated King Joffrey's nameday. Gone are the trees in every direction for at least two miles—they have been felled for the creation of an approximation of a tourney ground. _Another Ashford Meadow_ , Pod thinks, numbly, registering the changes in slow fragments. On the new ground, high wooden barriers stand to waist height to separate the knights from the crowd on the platforms of benches and the royal family above them. Sigils of dozens of Houses fly above everything, with the crowned Baratheon stag holding the honor of the highest place. Though, instead of gamblers shouting bets on the matches of knights, and singers throwing their voices to encourage the competitors, and merriment charging the air with the excitement of a real tourney, an uneasy silence broken only by birds and whispers fills the meadow.

The newly crowned King Tommen is absent, but his mother is present, as is _her_ father, the Hand of the King. Lord Mace Tyrell has a seat nearby with his wife, the Lady Alerie, and his mother, the Lady Olenna. Ser Loras Tyrell stands between Queen Cersei and the-Queen-to-be, the Lady Margaery, both in griefcolors of deep black. Crammed beside them are handmaidens and other ladies, with the small council sitting further down: Lord Varys, Grandmaester Pycelle (Ysilla at a respectful distance behind him), Ser Kevan Lannister, Mathis Rowan, Paxter Redwyne, and the High Septon. Ser Jaime Lannister and a frighteningly tall maid watch at the outskirts, talking quietly.

"Ser Addam," Tyrion says, so softly Pod nearly misses it, "I must confer with my champions."

When Pod and Tyrion find the other men, only one of them is smiling.

"You're as grim as a gargoyle, my friend," Prince Oberyn opines, fetching wine for the entire party. "Drink, all of you."

"You have wine before a battle?" Jon Fossoway mutters before Lord Tyrion can, but drinks anyway.

"I _always_ drink before a battle."

Tyrion hands his to Pod. "I may retch. That's it, my fair warning to the lot of you."

"You _may_ do it nowhere near my boots, dwarf," Bronn grumbles.

The conversation swings like a morningstar to its true destination—the trial of seven. Six for Tyrion, Pod sees for the umpteenth time.

"We can't go on with only six," Ser Garlan murmurs, as gently as he speaks to his lady wife. "It is not allowed."

"Is there no one else?" Lord Tyrion asks, so dejectedly Pod wants to grab at him by the shoulders and hug him.

Pod looks to the near distant stands of people, who wait rather patiently for an overdue justice. He looks from the best lord he's ever served, to the vengeful Oberyn Martell, to the gallant but concerned Garlan Tyrell, to the fearful Mark Mullendore and tense Tallad the Tall. Pod studies the stubbornly courageous Bronn of the Blackwater, a sellsword through and through, the weary Jon Fossoway, a halfhearted volunteer at best who will probably yield on the first charge. He stares at the figures of Ysilla, Ellaria Sand, Lady Janna, Lady Leonette, and even Margaery, twice wed and twice widowed, all of them with some stake in this trial. He thinks of Elia Martell and Sansa Stark, of Aegon the Unlikely and Duncan the Tall and Raymun Fossoway. He thinks of Florian the Fool, a true knight but a fool, also.

He even thinks of Barristan the Bold, who began a knightly career younger than Pod is now. Mostly, though, Pod thinks of Tyrion.

"There is, my lord," Pod answers, working harder than ever not to be a stumbletongue. He goes to one knee. "Knight me."

Tyrion flinches as if Pod has slapped him. For once, and at this height, Pod is shorter than him.

"No, Pod."

"A brave man," Prince Oberyn remarks. Bronn rolls his eyes.

"A lackwit."

"Podrick, get up," Tyrion commands. "You can't do this."

"I can, my lord," Pod persists, risking a glance at the open mouthed Manwoody squires. "Bring it. Bring my shield."

He isn't sure if it's the order that has them running, or the tone. He was just as firm as this during the Blackwater, when Lord Tyrion protested Pod fighting at all. There wasn't time to refuse that night, and Pod isn't about to give Tyrion another chance to deny him.

Mors and Dickon return with Ysilla's handiwork—a copper colored star on plain white. Ser Tallad eyes it with curiosity.

"What is it?"

It isn't the chequy and coins of House Payne, everyone understands at about the same time. Jon Fossoway smiles, wider than anyone.

"Took a leaf out of my ancestor's book, have you? Well done, boy."

"Ser Cedric always called me a copper star to House Payne's gold coins," Pod explains. "I like it better. It's a seven pointed star."

"Very knightly, Podrick," Ser Garlan says, alight with approval. "And the white background?"

"Podrick saved my life during the Blackwater," Tyrion answers for him, annoyed. "He pushed Mandon Moore into the river."

Squires of Oberyn, men-at-arms of the Tyrells, a hedge knight, and six champions whip their heads to stare at Tyrion, then at Pod.

"Of the Kingsguard?" Ser Daemon Sand demands.

"This may come as a surprise you, ser," Pod's lord points out, sounding sour, "but a lot of people want to kill me, my sister most of all."

A horn trumpets, forestalling further conversation. _They're restless_ , Pod realizes. _Tyrion's right, now more than ever._

"Knight me," Pod urges. "Hurry."

* * *

The Manwoody squires get Pod into his armor. Their lord wears even less than Pod's hand-me-down plates and boiled leather. Tyrion turns a despairing gaze away from Prince Oberyn, no doubt thinking of the colossal suit the Mountain wears. The seven champions have a strange assortment of protection, if studied together—Oberyn in more leather than metal, Pod and Tallad and Bronn wearing whatever they can find, Mark Mullendore in slightly finer stuff, Garlan and Jon in beautifully wrought plate that gave every indication of where it was forged. Their weaponry as a whole is just as mismatched, with Oberyn's spear, Bronn's shortsword and dagger, longswords for Tallad, Jon, and Mark, a greatsword for Garlan, and an axe for Pod, paired with a shortsword at Tyrion's insistence.

"I've damned all of you," Tyrion tells them, as the minutes dwindle down and down, "but your courage humbles me. I thank you."

_Oak and iron, guard me well, or else I'm dead and doomed to hell._

"The gods protect the innocent," Oberyn reminds him, cheerfully. "They are the damned ones."

 _They_ is an unpleasant reminder of the other champions, the men who stand for Joffrey. Ser Gregor Clegane, and Ser Ilyn Payne, the muscle and menace of the opposition. Since the Kingsguard must defend _all_ of the royal family, they were a scant few included, quite unlike Aerion Brightflame's group in 209 AC. With Arys Oakheart in Dorne, and Balon Swann and Boros Blount in the Red Keep with King Tommen, and Loras Tyrell at Cersei's side and Jaime Lannister maimed, only Sers Osmund Kettleblack and Meryn Trant join the fray.

With Osmund, Meryn, Gregor, and Ilyn stands Sers Osney Kettleblack, Kennos of Kayce, and Donnel Swann.

Pod struggles to look as knightly as the other thirteen men, but his fear threatens to swallow him whole. Oberyn thankfully disrupts this train of thought as he climbs atop his horse after a fierce kiss for luck from his paramour. "The Mountain is mine," says the prince.

"Take him," Jon Fossoway retorts, visibly relieved. "I'll pick...Swann. A cautious House."

"He's desperate to prove his allegiance to Tommen," Tyrion reminds them. "Use that. Let him come to you."

"Trant's mine," Bronn grunts.

"I'll take Payne," says Ser Garlan, quietly, deflating some of the final tension over choices. "Our Podrick should not become a kinslayer."

The likelihood of Pod slaying Ilyn is laughable, but no one has the indignity to say so, to Pod's relief.

"I want Osmund," Tallad the Tall interjects. "He's not as good as me."

Pod disagrees, but keeps it to himself. Mark Mullendore rises an inch, considering the last two men.

"Pod, you take Kennos," says Mark, almost as chivalrous as Garlan. "He's chunky and slow going. I'll fight Osney."

"Well done, sers," Lord Dagos Manwoody observes, steadying Prince Oberyn's horse. "Take your lances."

Pod isn't sure if it's the command that spurs the other side's horses, or the anticipation, but four of them are fussing across the field.

"My brother was kind enough to give us seven mares in or about to be in heat," Ser Garlan explains, grinning conspiratorially and for once acting the opposite of his nickname, to Pod's amazement. "Loras did just the same at the Hand's tourney, against the Mountain."

That sleight of hand joins a hedge knight bribed for glory, a sellsword coaxed by money, three men of the chivalrous Reach invited for honor, an upjumped squire bound by loyalty, and a prince committed to vengeance, all to defend a trustworthy Lannister, the only one of his kind. It makes Pod wants to laugh or jape, if his insides haven't already turned to water, if he were another man and not Pod.

 _Ser Podrick Payne._ It has a nice ring to it.

"Bad form, my lord," Prince Oberyn chides, delighted. "Willas has grown wicked."

On either side, the champions line up, dismissing stableboys and squires and hangers on. Pod's arm trembles with the weight of the lance, and his body with absolute terror, but he bites his tongue, burying the fear. He can be scared later—the repercussions of the trial of seven will outweigh every danger offered now. _If there **is** a later_ , Pod thinks, watching the rearing horses on the opposite side of the field. _We're going to be trampled_ , Pod realizes, lowering his visor with a touch of his gauntlet. _Even the Mountain_.

The High Septon barely has time to say his blessings before a horn sounds, signaling the start. He scurries off out of the way.

Pod digs his heels into his horse, dips his lance, and charges, joining six others in defense of a good lord's name.

* * *

Prince Oberyn's horse is the first to die.

Pod sees a glimpse of the world before both lines barreled into each other like aurochs in a dead-on collision. Bones snap, shields shatter, war lances soar out of hands like spears, and the horses scream. It's the screaming—the screaming is the worst, Pod reckons, absorbing everything quicker than he's understood anything in his life. One rider topples from his seat, leg crushed beneath a horse's hind. The Mountain's lance catches the prince's horse straight through the mouth and juts out the back of its head, splattering the prince with blood and gore.

Pod sees heartening things. Troubling things. Ilyn matching Garlan blow for blow, strike for strike. The Prince of Dorne dancing around the Mountain, poking at weak points in Clegane's armor like an overgrown manticore. Bronn beating Meryn bloody, both unarmed and muddy. Tallad varying his typical step-step-attack with a surprise swipe of a dirk from his belt. The horses scatter, galloping _away_.

Kennos of Kayce and Pod's duel is simultaneously endless and over in seconds. Pod blocks thrusts, parries and parries and parries, dances like the prince against a far larger opponent, and pushes, shoving at Kennos with all his might. They fight like Arthur Dayne and the Smiling Knight one minute, wildlings and shadowcats the next. Pod's visor is ripped off and gone a long time before he realizes it; Kennos gets a cut above the eye and never notices the deluge of blood down his nose. Pod can't hear _anything_ other than the battle—the crowd may as well be invisible to him. He spares no thought for the moves he tried so hard to memorize; nothing matters but this moment and his survival to the next.

"Yield," Kennos demands, seemingly annoyed he's not fighting someone else.

Pod gets a wallop to the forehead but kicks out, blindly, compensating for the incoming hits. He doesn't answer. Can't. Too much to do.

He can't avoid the uppercut Kennos slips in between Pod's sword and shield, or the fall backwards into the mud.

 _No one will stop_ , Pod realizes from very far away, as if the trial is leagues away. _This is a fight to the death._

"You raped her!" Prince Oberyn shouts at the Mountain, as murky a mirage. Vaguely, Pod thinks their fight is the stuff of nightmares. Scarier than the gallows before Ser Kevan heard his name, too late for Ser Lormier. "You murdered her! You killed her children!"

Osney Kettleblack slices a sword through the air, catching Tallad in the descent. Tallad's screaming, Pod sees. Hears. Wonders? Or is that a horse? There's a man without an eye on the field. Odd—his sigil has _three_. Bronn has a red smile and redder hands that only get redder and redder. Ilyn's laughter clacks like hooves, inexplicably louder than he has been in over a decade. Ser Jon Fossoway's motionless beneath the horse, leg crushed. Donnel Swann and Osney Kettleblack advance on the screaming Tallad, now looking quite deranged.

Meryn Trant does not get up. Bronn does. Osmund Kettleblack cuts off the rest of Mark Mullendore's arm, steps as uneven as a drunkard.

And Pod? Pod is...Pod's—avoiding a sword through the nose. The blade juts into the ground beside his ear, discarded by his enemy.

"Yield, boy," Kennos spits, mailed hands closing around Pod's throat. Pod gasps for breath, struggling to break the grip. _No_. No. This isn't how things are supposed to go. The stakes are too high. Lord Tyrion's depending on him. On them. On Pod.

Pod lurches up, like Ser Garlan ordered only days ago. He keeps going, scrabbling hands finding Kennos's collar. One hand makes a fist, gauntleted fingers curling up to punch Kennos silly. Pod's other hand holds him down, punching and punching and punching until the chunky opponent he feared is panting and sobbing and striving to make words out of his mess of a mouth and broken teeth.

"Yield!" He wails. "Yield, I yield!"

Pod lets him go and takes off running, pell mell and staggering, until he collides with a Kettleblack and shoves.

Dirk. Pod has a dirk. Or an axe. They look the same. The axe slashes at the hand of whichever Kettleblack brother he's tackled, making the owner scream like the men of the Blackwater did, dying by wildfire or near the Mud Gate. Ser Mandon yelped, not screamed...

"Yield," Osmund chokes out, barely audible. Pod retreats, dazed and bloody and muddy. _Where's my sword?_

"Don't!" Donnel Swann howls, just before Bronn jams a shortsword through his mouth and out the back of his head.

_That's not honorable._

_When has **Bronn** been honorable, Pod_? A voice like Lord Tyrion's asks, further away to Pod than the Wall.

And then, it's over.

The Mountain goes one way, and his head the other, body landing in the mud with all the clamor of a rockslide. Prince Oberyn's hands raise the horribly bloody head into the air, drawing every eye to it like some grisly crown. A gust of wind in the meadow seems to blow, all at once—as if every man, woman, and child exhaled in shock. Clegane's body is still hot when his fellows give up, one by one.

Osney Kettleblack drops his sword at once and goes to a knee, yielding. His brother stays obediently motionless in the mud, as does Kennos of Kayce. Donnel Swann is dead. Meryn Trant is dead. Bronn looks close to dying, in all that red. Tallad looks closer, but fierce.

Red as Lannister, Garlan lops off a few of Ser Ilyn Payne's fingers when the Mountain's death distracts the king's justice, albeit minutely. Payne bares his teeth but kneels like the rest of them, admitting defeat with all the sourness of overripe fruit, or a moldy coin.

The silence of the field that has fallen since The Mountain died is broken by the queen regent, under her father's glare.

 _Tell them_ , Pod thinks.

"I withdraw," she bites out, fury making every syllable stagger and shake, "my accusation."

* * *

Tyrion Lannister is not all smiles as Pod expected, but he's close.

"Well," Pod's lord remarks, voice thin, "that went better than expected."

Pod smiles ever so slightly in reply, and pours the wine.

"You aren't a squire any longer, Pod," Tyrion tells him, as the guests arrive. "There's plenty of servants to do that for me."

Pod _is_ a knight as of yesterday morning, but the idea will take some growing into, like a good pair of boots.

"I want to, my lord," says Pod, honestly, and returns to his post.

Lord Tyrion raises a toast, more solemn than a man with the favor of the gods ought to be. "To Bronn."

"To Mark," Garlan adds, just as somber. The Prince of Dorne, his paramour, Garlan's wife, and Jaime Lannister echo them.

Brienne of Tarth toasts to neither and doesn't touch her glass at all, but only Pod notices.

Bronn succumbed to his wounds before the hour of the eel, cursing like a sailor. By the hour of the nightingale, Mark followed. Tallad the Tall lost an eye to the trial but none of his wits, fortunately—Pod reckons he saw just bloodlust in the heat of battle when the knight screamed. Jon Fossoway's leg is salvageable and the man himself is in good spirits, to Lady Janna's relief and Garlan's gratitude. Prince Oberyn is no worse for wear, and more cheerful than Lord Tyrion. Garlan, meanwhile, seems to share Pod's dull shock over their victory, in spite of it all.

Their victory has bigger ripples than Pod anticipated. With one Kingsguard slain, a Lannister dog beheaded, and a handful of knights disgraced in the defense of their fallen king, Ser Jaime swears his father the Hand is furious.

"Run away, all of you," the Lord Commander warns. "My sister is even angrier."

The group agrees, and decides to split up at first light. Ser Garlan and Lady Leonette will escort Mark's bones to Uplands, House Mullendore's seat, before doubling back to Brightwater Keep, where Garlan—accompanied by a Tyrell host—will press his new claim. Jon Fossoway and Lady Janna will meander back to Highgarden, cautious of Jon's injury. Prince Oberyn, Ellaria Sand, their Dornishmen, and Lord Tyrion will travel to Dorne with Bronn's bones (Tyrion insists Bronn be buried near High Hermitage). The prince agrees.

"And me, my lord?" Pod asks, when Tyrion makes no mention of him.

"You, boy," Ser Jaime Lannister answers for his brother, clapping Pod on the shoulder, "are going with the wench."

"Jaime," Brienne of Tarth snaps, luckily missing the curious smile on Lord Tyrion's face, and his eyes darting between them.

"You're going with Brienne," Jaime amends. Pod looks back to Tyrion, more wounded than he wants to be. Again? Someone is abandoning Pod _again_? Knights don't cry, Pod thinks, even as his eyes burn like wildfire. _Aemon the Dragonknight cried_ , Pod remembers, and sniffs.

Lord Tyrion looks pensive. "Lady Brienne has a mission from Catelyn Stark, Pod. She's going to look for Sansa."

"Lady Sansa," Brienne corrects, just as Pod blurts out, "your lady wife."

"Yes, Pod," Tyrion agrees with a familiar exasperated smile. "My wife. She's missing, remember?"

"Yes, my lord."

"I don't need any help," Brienne interjects, interrupting them. "Keep your squire."

"He's not a squire," Tyrion replies, more patiently than Pod thinks his lord is capable of. "He's a knight. Like you."

"I'm not a knight."

"You're bloody close enough," says Jaime, with a wave of his golden hand. "Get on your horse, wench. Or, better, get a _higher_ one—"

"Jaime," Tyrion warns. Brienne and Pod comply, arranging their belongings in the saddlebags and drawing the reins to their hands.

"I'm your squire," Pod says, a little sadly.

"You are," Lord Tyrion concedes, smaller than ever from Pod's vantage point. "When you and Brienne find Sansa, write to me."

It's a better goodbye than Pod's ever had. He tries out a solemn, knightly look, and nods, finding it easier after all this time to make himself be brave. Lord Tyrion's the most clever man Pod knows. He wouldn't send Pod away without a reason. _My safety_ , Pod reckons, glancing around the stables. That's why first light was picked for everyone; fewer eyes and ears to learn of their movements. _My sister is angry_ , the Kingslayer warned. It makes sense, instantly—Lord Tyrion is sending Pod away to keep him from the queen.

Pod will write to him, and then go to Dorne to find Tyrion. _It's a goodbye for a short while_ , Pod tells himself, hopefully.

"Yes, my lord."

A thought strikes him, just as suddenly. A goodbye he'll never have.

"Ysilla," Pod gets out, and tries again. "The grandmaester's s-serving girl. Take her to Dorne as your maid, my lord. She helped me."

Lord Tyrion inclines his head, looking more lordly than his brother and more knowing than Pod's lady friend. Serving girl? Jonquil?

_Hmm._

"I'll see what I can do, ser," says Pod's lord, wry and sounding more like himself every moment.

Pod smiles, a little tremulously, and is still smiling when he and Brienne ride out onto the kingsroad, side by side.

"Where to first, my lady?" Pod asks, the error making him flush with embarrassment. "Um...ser?"

"Duskendale," she answers, ignoring the mistake altogether. Brienne sidles a look at him, reminiscent of Ser Garlan and Prince Oberyn, when Pod did a particularly advanced trick or suggested an idea without stuttering all of his words first. "What shall I call you?"

_Ser Podrick of House Payne, a knight in service to Lord Tyrion Lannister, son of Tywin, innocent of kinslaying and kingslaying—_

"Pod," he says, sheepish, not quite fitting into the boots of a true knight, no matter his deeds and dreams. Not yet. "Just Pod."


End file.
